The news of the victory had spread rapidly, and by the time Shibusawa reached Kyoto the whole south was in a state of unrestrained enthusiasm. From the first days of the shogunate, the south had never at any time yielded complete submission. They had always believed in the divine right of the mikado, and still cherished the hope of his complete restoration. They had fought many battles before, but somehow this one sounded a deeper note. A new leader had risen, and they rallied to his support with a better heart and bolder purpose.

While the force of the great success had been thus encouraging in the south it worked a radically different effect in the north. The news had travelled faster than the terrified shogun, and long before he reached Tokyo they had heard of Tetsutaisho’s misfortune and of the crushing defeat Hitotsubashi had suffered to befall the brave samurai.

On the return march he was openly jeered, and nowhere did the retreat meet with even respectful consideration. Everywhere throughout the north the people bowed down with sorrow; but in their hearts there arose a feeling of contempt for the halting, fleeing shogun.

“Had Tetsutaisho but escaped disablement!” became the suppressed cry on every hand.

Hitotsubashi re-entered his palace a broken-hearted man, and there shut himself in, a prisoner and a failure. It wanted only the bidding of the first comer to startle and frighten him into a weak and puerile submission: he waited and the time quickly came.

In the readjustment of the army, Shibusawa not only took advantage of the strong public sentiment greatly to augment and newly equip the force at hand, but introduced an entirely new system of arrangement and discipline. He made of the army three great divisions: the Central or Home division, over which he himself retained the immediate command; the Right or South division, the command of which he intrusted to Saigo; the Left or North division, which, strange to say, Tetsutaisho, his most bitter enemy, was named to command.

Shibusawa alone was responsible for the arrangement, which, not at first entirely understood, soon became generally known and proved most effective in its workings. Without in any manner weakening his effective forces he had placed his strongest enemy in the light of a rebel—than which there is none more odious in the eyes of his countrymen—and rather than bear the stigma of being so called many withdrew their support from the shogunate or came over entirely to the side of the mikadate.

While these sweeping changes were in progress, an expedition was also being planned that should carry the seat of warfare far to the northward, and even to the very door of the shogun’s palace itself. Such a thing had never before been thought possible, and now, when the most unheard of changes were the regular order, it was looked upon with wonder. Still the people, though amazed, had confidence in Shibusawa, who carried on his work with a full understanding of its probable effect at home, as well as its possibilities in the north. Nor was he unappreciative of the advisability of following up his first victory while its consequences were yet fresh in the minds of all. Hastening his movements as much as seemed consistent with good judgment, he began mobilising a vast army near the seashore at Owara, and there rendezvoused all the ships at his disposal or that he could buy or build in the meantime.

So rapidly did Shibusawa move that by the middle of April he held in readiness a fleet of two thousand craft of all sorts and an army fully one-half the size of that which Tetsutaisho had three months before marched against them. Thereupon he notified Tokyo that the mikado had proclaimed the shogun a rebel, demanding his immediate surrender; also advised Tetsutaisho that if he longer refused to submit to orders from Kyoto he did so at his peril.

The young commander did not wait for an answer, but set the day upon which to sail. When the time came he bid all on land a hearty good-bye, and under the promise of warm skies and a calm sea spread canvas; and the southern armada sailed away, toward its heroic mission and enlarged purpose.

Shibusawa’s ship had been the last to leave its moorings, and as it slowly backed off a shout went up from the throngs who crowded the shore, bringing the young hero on deck where he bade them all farewell. Blushing maidens waved their handkerchiefs, while young men shouted themselves hoarse. Old men bowed, and white-haired women prophesied. Some moaned a murmuring fear, for they had heard the voice of Kammon and seen visions of the mighty dragon of the sea. Nor were those on board the ships afterwards less apprehensive, for the warm skies of the early morning had changed to sultry, murky heat. At midday the sun barely showed its great, fiery face, and when it had sunk toward the western horizon the winds ceased and the spangled fleet lay still on the glassy waters or lolled on the lazy, deep rolling seas.

Thus they drifted and wandered far out on the blue expanse, like tiny specks on the line betwixt heaven and earth, while their thoughts roamed tauntingly through weird vagaries of legionary mysticism. Then suddenly the heavens darkened, the winds blew, and the seas angered.

Even Shibusawa became not without a reverence for the ancestral gods. The cracking of the timbers, the cries of the drowning, the fear of destruction, these had certainly been enough to inspire feelings of respect if not reverence for that which had once been all and all to him. He came upon deck and there witnessed the power of religion over men. His oldest veterans, tried and found true on many a battle-field, were there lying prostrate before their chosen gods. He too may have reverenced Bishamon, for he knelt and remained silent in the momentary calm.

And as he there bowed a woman arose from the hatchway before him. He started, and for the nonce lost his reason, appealing to Kwannon to save them. His whole soul had returned at the call of the source whence it came; the body gave what the mind failed. He felt her presence, and all the reason of all the enlightened ages could not have shown him that Takara had not invoked their calamity; for had not the sages of all time said that the presence of a woman on board a man-of-war would bring upon it the wrath of Oni? And was it not said there could be no escaping his fury? These early accounted truths overwhelmed Shibusawa, and for the moment he crouched in startled submission. The hobgoblins of his youth had at last become a stern reality, for there stood before him his own wife in the flesh and form. He would have risen and appealed to her, but she checked him; and coming near, beckoned him be silent, then said:

“You would believe me a witch, some demon who has risen from the deep to do you harm. It is not true; I came to save you.”

Then she drew from her sleeve a blood-stained handkerchief, which she bade him take from her hand. Impulse moved him to do so, and as he touched the crumpled cloth his own consciousness discerned the awful message therein revealed. He held it and listened, half bewildered, half determined. She continued, saying:

“Take it, and promise me that you will avenge the wrong, that you will sacrifice your own for your father’s blood?”

He started, then hesitated; and looking all around, asked:

“The storm?”

She answered:

“Do you promise?”

He said:

“I do.”

Then the storm broke afresh upon them; her face brightened, and she leaped over the side of the ship and into the angry sea; and as she sank beneath the foam-tossed waves she smiled sweetly, and he felt and knew her message to be a token of peace.

As she disappeared from sight Shibusawa rushed to the ship’s rail, and calling loudly to those about him threw off his garment and would have leaped after her had they not seized hold and implored him not to let them die while he saved only a woman. He threw them from him and turned to make the leap; but instead started back and stared in front, for there arose before him out of the waters a vision of beauty, a goddess of truth.

Her beautiful form seemed wound round with a mist, and her upturned face looked toward the heavens. The storm ceased and the waters calmed. The dark clouds parted and a sunburst shone through, enshrouding her; she soared upward, disappearing within the sun’s circle; the clouds closed after her, and she was seen no more; Shibusawa alone knew the haven of her rest.

Thence they sailed away toward Hakone, the intended port of landing. The typhoon which had passed them did no great damage to the fleet—only destroying some of the smaller craft and a few thousand men—and the repairs were soon made, while they progressed without further interruption.

After the weather had settled and they were again under full sail Shibusawa retired to his cabin, and there pondered deeply the strange scene he had witnessed. He knew that he had always acted in accordance with the dictates of his own conscience, and felt that he could not hold himself accountable for the sad misfortunes of fate. Yet he remained conscious of Takara’s new love, and, after having again brushed aside all trace of returning mysticism, felt a deep sorrow overspreading his life.

She, too, had passed through this same consciousness, and had grown to love Shibusawa better than he knew; and when the time had come for him to set sail a great fear had taken hold of her, and she could not bear to see him go beyond her reach. She had reasoned well that his duty called him hence and that at his post there was no place for a woman. Yet she longed to be near him, to share his sorrows and comfort his distress.

All this Takara felt in her heart, though she knew that he could not return her love; that another held in secret the trust which God had given, and that she herself at best must be but a slave. As such, she stole on board his ship and hid herself away. The storm came upon them, and she too may have fallen at the shrine of Mystery, listened to the sweet voice of Tradition. And she reasoned that if the one be true, the other must suffice; that if her presence had disturbed the gods, her sacrifice must appease their wrath. Hence she sought her god, and intrusted to him the keeping of her sworn duty. He accepted the obligation, and she answered to the will of her Maker. It is asked:

“Is the beautiful goddess of truth a certain star? Is Takara in heaven?”